


Tangible

by T J Feardorcha (MonsterTesk)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:41:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterTesk/pseuds/T%20J%20Feardorcha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes he'd wake up in the middle of the night and they would hurt like they were angry at him. Spiteful and mean because he betrayed them, cut them off, sacrificed them for something they didn't think was worth it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangible

**Author's Note:**

> Me and my dream girl like to sometimes give each other one word prompts then allow ten minutes to fill the prompt. This is one result of the prompting. Her word for me was "Tangible."

>  

>  

They weren't there-- his arm, his leg-- but sometimes… sometimes he felt tingles, like phantom branches brushing against them, the cut of a sleeve too short to be his own, grass against an ankle he didn't have. 

 

Sometimes he'd wake up in the middle of the night and they would hurt like they were angry at him. Spiteful and mean because he betrayed them, cut them off, sacrificed them for something they didn't think was worth it.

 

It was always worth it, for Al. Always for Al. There were times when his brother wasn't paying attention that Ed would just sit and stare and wonder.

Did he feel it, too? Did he get these ghost-touches all over his body? How would it feel to have it all over, these sensations he could never explain. 

 

At times, he could hear the metal of his fingers click together, solid, real, and present but feel nothing. It was as if because of how real the metal was, it was unreal. Sometimes the most tangible thing he felt was the whisper of grass years passed, tickling his wrist as he lay in the field behind their house and looked at the sun. 

 

Sometimes he'd clap his hands together just to feel that zing of power and to smell the ozone of transmutation unfinished. 

It smelled like him, it smelled like home. 

 

He was that smell, bitter, ripe, unfinished, but still the potential and the power were there, if one wished to access it. 

He could never bare to comprehend what it must feel like for his brother. 

 

The warmth of the sun misses him but heats the metal of his arm. It burns but it's still not close to the pain of that night and the atrocities he committed. 

The smell of ozone, the wet sound of exposed air, his name being pushed out of a grotesque mockery of his mother. 


End file.
